


Don't Feel Safe

by With_the_Wolves



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Jon is Paranoid, Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Paranoia, Whump, set in season 2, the kind of paranoia where you're just extremely tired, the writer is projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29159763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/With_the_Wolves/pseuds/With_the_Wolves
Summary: "After the Prentiss incident—after he finds out that Gertrude was murdered—Jon starts sleeping with a knife under his pillow. His sleep is light and troubled, and every creaking noise in his small flat has him sitting bolt upright, clutching the knife in both hands."Jon knows that his coworkers don't want to kill him. But knowing isn't enough to quiet the noise in his head.Written for Febuwhump, Day 2: "i can't take this anymore"
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139420
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Don't Feel Safe

After the Prentiss incident—after he finds out that Gertrude was murdered—Jon starts sleeping with a knife under his pillow. His sleep is light and troubled, and every creaking noise in his small flat has him sitting bolt upright, clutching the knife in both hands.

He knows that there’s no one there. He knows that it was just his neighbors, moving around upstairs. Or the wind, or the pipes, or one of the million other things that make noises in old buildings.

But he also _knows_ that someone has come to kill him, that they are in his flat, that any minute now they’ll come through his bedroom door, and his knife will be a very paltry defense against their gun.

It’s better, when he’s exploring the tunnels. He’s on his feet, moving, not a sitting duck. His hip aches where the worms burrowed into bone, and there’s something living in the tunnels that is probably dangerous. But if he’s going to be afraid anyway, he might as well be afraid for a good reason.

Here’s the thing: Jon knows that there is no mysterious Archivist Assassin coming after him. That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t know why Gertrude was murdered, but it’s hard to imagine a circumstance where the sole motive was her position as Head Archivist.

But.

He thinks about being shot constantly. Enough that it’s hard to think clearly about anything else. What would it feel like, for a bullet to enter his lung, his heart? What would it feel like to die?

He’s afraid, all the time, of a threat that he knows doesn’t actually exist. It’s maddening. More than once in the weeks of his ‘recovery’, it brings him to tears.

And then he goes back to work.

And.

Something.

Is.

Wrong.

He doesn’t know what it is. They all seem normal enough. Sasha, Martin, and Tim all greet him when he comes in. Elias schedules a meeting with him to discuss “strategies for moving forward” that is just as boring and pointless as every meeting with Elias. When he returns downstairs, he finds that Martin has left a mug of tea on his desk.

None of this is strange.

But something—Something is wrong.

An image flashes through Jon’s mind, of poison in the tea. Choking and dying on the floor of his office, just out of reach of help. Would his assistants even help him? Or would they just gather around, watching as the breath is slowly squeezed out of his lungs, reveling in their victory?

He pours out the tea in the break room sink without drinking any of it.

Martin sees, and looks hurt, and Jon feels guilty. But it’s—He can’t—

He needs to figure out what is wrong here. Then he’ll be able to trust Martin’s tea again. Then he’ll be able to sit through an entire meeting with Elias without imagining the other man suddenly pulling a gun on him.

His assistants are not planning on murdering him.

His boss is not planning on murdering him.

A third-party assassin is not planning on murdering him.

( _Did Gertrude think that no one was planning on murdering her? Did she let her guard down? She was just an old lady, what grudge could anyone possibly have had—_ )

Jon goes through his assistants’ desks, searching for clues. Things to prove their innocence. ( _Things to prove their guilt._ ) Sasha is unhappy with him, when she catches him. She tells Tim, and now they both glare at him whenever he comes into a room. They’re waiting for him to apologize for the breach of privacy.

( _He’s angered them; they’re waiting for the right opportunity to strike and kill him._ )

But that’s the least of his worries, because Martin is _lying_ to him.

( _Martin murdered Gertrude, Jon is next._ )

But no. That’s ridiculous. Why would Martin have murdered Gertrude?

( _You’re next, you’re next._ )

He follows Martin on his lunch break. He goes to a cafe, just down the street. Orders a soup and a sandwich. He sees Jon while he’s looking for a table, and Jon—runs.

When Martin comes back, he comes into Jon’s office, closing the door behind him.

( _This is it, this is when he kills you._ )

But… He doesn’t. Because he didn’t kill Gertrude, _obviously_ he didn’t kill Gertrude. Martin would never kill anyone. He lied on his CV, of all things, and that’s so ridiculous and, and normal, Jon could almost laugh with it.

But there’s still Tim, and Sasha, and Elias. And something is still wrong.

He follows Sasha on her lunch break. She goes to a wax museum, which isn’t evidence, but which is… Odd. He asks her about it, and her eyes narrow in a way that lets him know he didn’t play it off casually enough. She has a new boyfriend who works there.

That makes sense.

He follows Tim on his lunch break, and Tim spots him, cornering him before he can run off. He’s angry, but also… Jon doesn’t know. Tired? Sad?

Jon is exhausted.

“You _need_ to trust me,” Tim is saying. “You can’t honestly believe that I’m the one who killed Gertrude.”

He’s right. Jon doesn’t believe that, not really. And he really, really wants to trust Tim.

( _He might kill you when you’re not in public._ )

Jon goes to Tim’s flat, settles himself behind a row of trash cans, watching. It’s cold, and he isn’t even sure what he’s looking for, at this point. He just needs—something. Some reassurance. He misses Tim, misses the easy rhythm of their friendship. So he watches, and waits, and—

Tim comes out, looking angry, heading right towards his hiding place. Jon straightens and starts to walk away, trying to play it off casually. He wasn’t watching Tim’s flat, he’s just taking a walk. Happenstance.

Tim grabs his shoulder, and Jon freezes.

“Why are you watching my flat,” Tim says, his voice low.

Tim is stronger than Jon. If he wanted, he could pull Jon inside, hold him down, slash his throat with a kitchen knife. Jon’s blood would spray everywhere, and with his voice box severed, he couldn’t even cry out at the pain.

But Tim wouldn’t go for something so messy, probably. That would be hard to clean up. Hard to hide.

_And_ Tim wouldn’t murder Jon in the first place.

( _He could, though._ )

“I’m not watching your flat,” Jon tries, not meeting Tim’s eyes. It’s a bad lie, and he can tell from the way Tim leans back, taking a deep, loud breath, that Tim doesn’t remotely believe it.

( _Even if he doesn’t murder you, he could hurt you quite badly._ )

But he won’t, it’s Tim, and he _wouldn’t_ —

“I can’t do this any more, Jon,” Tim says. His voice is loud. “I’m not going to have you watching my home. That’s—absolutely ridiculous. I’ve asked you, again and again, to trust me. How hard is it? I’m your _friend_ , or I thought I was, at least.”

And Jon—Jon finds that he can’t do this either. He wants to flinch away from Tim, to run off to where it’s at least marginally safer, but he’s so _tired_. “Do you think I _like_ this? You think I’d—What, that I’d _choose_ to sit outside your apartment for hours, in the dead of winter?”

“I think you very clearly _are_ choosing that,” Tim says.

Tim says it likes it’s obvious, but it _isn’t_. “This isn’t my choice,” Jon says, wrapping his arms around himself. “I want to trust you,” he says. “I miss you. I keep hoping I’ll find any evidence proving that you didn’t kill Gertrude, but—”

“Jon, you’ve known me for _years_ ,” Tim says. “I’m your friend. Isn’t that evidence enough?”

“That isn’t—” Jon’s breath catches in his throat, because Tim doesn’t understand. And maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe Jon _is_ just being unreasonable. Maybe he does just need to—to try harder.

But god, he’s so tired already. He can’t try harder than he’s already trying. He’s losing Tim, and it’s his own fault, and—his vision blurs with tears, and he sniffs, trying to blink them away.

“Jon?” Tim says, and his voice is gentler now.

Jon just shakes his head, turning away, pulling his arms closer around him. It’s fine, he’ll be fine. He’ll go home, lay down and sleep for a while. He isn’t so scared when he’s asleep.

( _If you let your guard down, the person who killed Gertrude will get you too._ )

But Tim grabs his shoulder, again, and Jon almost hopes that Tim will try to kill him. Just to get it over with.

But Tim is still just talking. “Jon, I’m—Well, I’m not going to apologize, because you’re the one stalking me. But—do you want to come inside and—talk about it? I want to know what I’m missing here.”

( _He’s trying to get you alone, the perfect opportunity to kill you._ )

No, he’s not. That’s just what Tim is like, with his friends. Accommodating. Always wanting to understand the reasons behind all of their annoying little tics.

Jon knows that Tim isn’t going to kill him.

But his heart is hammering anyway, and he’s shaking, not from the cold, but with certainty that he is walking to his death.

But he is so, so tired.

He takes a breath. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> come visit my tumblr @suttttton


End file.
